


In a Trust so Gentle

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:28:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I should want to die,<br/>there's nothing I'd be saved by<br/>more than the time<br/>you fell asleep in my arms" - Edwin Morgan</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Trust so Gentle

It happened when Sherlock was scoffing at the stupidity of a quiz show contestant. 

John glanced across from his laptop and noticed the ambiguously beautiful way the dim light was reflected in his flatmate's cheekbone, rounding his sharper features and softening them to reflect the man they shielded. The hem of his t-shirt had been stretched after many months of service, allowing John a glimpse of delicate collar bones framing the tendons in a delicate neck, and the humanity of this self-proclaimed sociopath struck him almost painfully. Never before, he thought, had Sherlock looked so utterly vulnerable and at ease within himself. The television continued to murmur in the background as his fingers continued to hover over the keys, the demanding, blinking cursor forgotten in this moment of rare peace. 

Sherlock shifted slightly and his head rolled further back into the cushions, his eyes flickering with the weight of recent sleep deprivation and adrenaline fueled chases down damp alleys; a world away, it seemed. His eyelashes grazed the elegant curve of his cheek and John felt almost drunk on affection, helplessly staring as the detective slowly gave himself over to the clutches of slumber. An involuntary sound breached Sherlock's lips and his fists unfurled into relaxed shapes at his sides, cruelly taunting the doctor's urges to hold the violinist's fingers between his own. 

His hair was an unruly mess that seemed even more unkempt than usual, and the image was only tainted by the lack of another's fingers brushing the curls softly away from his brow. A muscle jumped in Sherlock's thigh: a movement which unearthed not even a centimetre of pale, taught stomach, and John bit the inside of his mouth. Begrudgingly he turned back towards his blog post and briefly considered the weight of one particular four letter word.


End file.
